


This Is The Worst Part

by vtn



Category: Electronic Dance Music RPF, Music RPF, Mystery Jets
Genre: Angst, Disabled Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-12
Updated: 2009-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtn/pseuds/vtn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts in a London club when Blaine meets a strange drunken man who wants to produce his band's music. Things just get stranger from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is The Worst Part

**Author's Note:**

> Aka Blaine Harrison Hiding Under Furniture, which comes from this brilliant conversation I had with the fantastic ROWAN which spawned the whole story. So thank you Rowan.
> 
> Title from "Don't Let's Start" by They Might Be Giants.
> 
> Contains mentions of RL spouses (well, mainly just Chandra) and a small cameo from Late of the Pier.

" _don't don't don't let's start/I've got a weak heart/  
and I can't get around how you get around_ "  
\--They Might Be Giants

  
  
So they've just been playing this night in London called Trash--and it's absolutely like nothing Blaine's ever seen before; first of all he heard about it but he could never actually get past the bouncer who throws you out if he doesn't like your clothes and second he doesn't think he's seen this much makeup in once place since the one time he tried doing a theatre production in school but third the crowd has been absolutely mad and evidently loves what the band is doing--and this bloke called Erol Alkan who is apparently the organizer is shaking his hand and grinning his face off.  
  
"I absolutely loved what you were doing tonight. Absolutely excellent," he's saying. "You know, I've been getting into production lately and would really love to work with you. What do you think?"  
  
Think, Blaine, think. What do you think? You think this man is clearly intoxicated, and what do you do with drunken raving lunatics? That's right. Hand them off to Dad.  
  
"I really think you should talk to my dad--he's the old geezer who was playing the guitar--he knows better about that sort of thing."   
  
"Fair enough, just thought I'd talk to you as you were the frontman." Please leave me alone. Please. Please just go. "See you around then. I hope."  
  
"See you," Blaine says with a half-hearted smile, and prays that Henry will know how to handle it.  
  
\---  
  
"Guess what?" says Henry at the next band practice.  
  
"You're buying us a cake?" suggests Will. None of them has had anything to eat all day, and cake does actually sound very, very good.  
  
"Oh, I do love cakes," Kai adds. "Please say it's cakes."  
  
"Well, I wasn't actually going to say cakes, but I suppose it is an occasion worthy of a cake or two."  
  
"Oh good," says Will. Satisfied, he starts playing with his guitar.  
  
"Please, listen. Do you remember Erol Alkan?"   
  
Oh no. Please, for the sake of all things holy and/or made of cake batter.   
  
"Well, he's offered to work on production with us for our next single," Henry finishes. "So, shall we then? Cakes?"  
  
"Er, lovely," says Blaine. "And, chocolate, I think."   
  
\---  
  
The thing is, though, isn't it, that, well, what do they need a new producer for? They've been doing pretty fantastically well by themselves. They've even been on Top of the Pops and everything, so what more could you want? Who does Erol Alkan think he is anyway? Just because he wants to be a producer doesn't mean he is one. Could you get to be a doctor that way? Blaine thinks not.  
  
He has a bit of a rant with Will while the two of them are eating cake and ice cream.   
  
"What do we need a producer for?" he says, putting it bluntly.  
  
"Er, production, I think," says Will.   
  
"We've got that, though."  
  
"Yeah, but...urgh." Will puts his head in his hands. "I mean, we're pretty all right at it, and I do feel like it might be a bit--what's the word--a bit disingenuous to, you know, have someone else be doing it, but, you know..."  
  
"I really don't know, though," Blaine insists. "He came up to me and he was completely smashed. He kept shaking my hand and speaking gibberish at me."  
  
"Well, I've been in that state before, and you still respect me, don't you?"  
  
"Either that or I still have the same lack of respect for you that I've had since childhood." Blaine gives Will a cheeky grin.  
  
"Anyway, you know, it's like your dad said--he's been a major influence in the London scene for years now. And this is really a privilege, really. It's new, but it's kind of exciting." Will smiles and messes with his hair.  
  
"Your mum's so big she's a major influence on the London scene every time she gets out of bed," Blaine offers lamely. "Meh. We can give it a try, I suppose."  
  
"Hey!" Will turns a bit red. "You watch what you say about my mum, or you can't come round my parents' house anymore, all right?"  
  
"Sorry. You know, those things, they don't really mean  _your_  mum in specific, just, people's mums in general."  
  
"You said  _my_  mum."  
  
"But, aagh." Blaine hangs his head. Will pats him on the shoulder.  
  
"I'm just having a laugh, I am. You lighten up, all right?" Blaine manages a smile.  
  
"Okay."  
  
\---  
  
Blaine does his best not to mope around while Erol is in the studio. Things are very different. Sometimes Erol has ideas that he gets absolutely stuck to--a certain part has to sound a certain way--and the rest of the time he flails about trying to make sure he gets the Mystery Jets to enunciate exactly what they want something to sound like. In Blaine's opinion, the main way they get things to sound the way they want is just playing it until they like it.   
  
It could, he admits, be worse. Erol doesn't bark orders or get finicky when one of his suggestions is vetoed. He isn't smarmy or businesslike either; he comes to the studio in a T-shirt and jeans and a jacket, tries not to encroach on the careful bonds of friendship and family that tie the band together.   
  
And, Henry reminds him, it's frustrating for everyone. The main thing that is getting everyone a bit tightly wound is physical space. Six people in a studio accustomed to five isn't easy. They have to do a lot of shuffling around and making room, especially when Erol needs to be sitting down or listening from different parts of the room and also when he's dragging microphones all over the place.  
  
"And I know it's more frustrating for you than for any of the rest of us," Henry says gently. Blaine, at that particular moment, is--embarrassingly--near tears because he's in a great deal of pain, and is having to sit down through doing his vocals, because he can hardly move one leg, which meant they had to rearrange the entire studio to accommodate the chair. And just like always he's a little bit torn between 'this is all my fault' and 'fuck you all, no one is doing enough'. "But you've been doing really great. And listen." Henry leans in closer. "If it doesn't work out, all we have to do is say no."  
  
Blaine smiles, swallows, and doesn't cry. Instead he pays attention to his lyric sheet and sings with all of his pain, because he's never really had to do this, but he knows exactly why he does.  
  
\---  
  
The next day Blaine is feeling better. He's taken some pretty serious medication for the pain, and he woke up singing the song they're working on. He woke up with ideas about how it should sound, and he's ready to share them.  
  
Erol arrives a little bit late and his hair is still a little damp when he walks in. He hangs up his jacket and Blaine can't help but mentally do a little happy dance. Erol's wearing a Smiths shirt! Actually, he's wearing a very tight Smiths shirt. A very tight Smiths shirt which is, in fact, riding up his stomach. Blaine shouldn't be noticing, but he is. He never really realized before that Erol, dash it all, is really a little bit--and maybe even a little bit more than a little bit--attractive.   
  
Blaine's always been 'curious', as Will once put it. "Curious in the sense of both inquisitive and really, really odd." He's had a few mostly dysfunctional relationships but he's fancied a large number of both boys and girls and has spent a lot of time--and ballpoint pens--writing angsty poetry about it in his room. At some point it became good enough to start putting music to it, and, well, the rest is history. All thanks to Blaine's constant being angry at the world and sexually frustrated. Which is really the human condition, isn't it?  
  
Anyway the question of Erol's good looks will be resolved later, if at all, but Blaine is thrilled he has something to connect over now.  
  
"So you like the Smiths," he says, trying to hide his grin. Of course it's all in vain because Erol returns with one twice as brilliant.  
  
"Absolutely."  
  
"Favorite song?" Blaine asks.   
  
"I can't tell you that," Erol says slyly. "I think it colors other people's view of music when I say that sort of thing."  
  
"Oh, really," Blaine says, growing a little bolder. "Are you sure that's not just an excuse for only listening to them for the image?"  
  
"Well if it helps," Erol replies with a laugh, "I can tell you my second favorite. At the end of every single Trash, when it's time to go home, I always play 'There is a Light that Never Goes Out'. But, you know, it's really something that belongs to Trash, and when I'm not there, it sort of loses its context for me, know what I mean?"  
  
"Sure," says Blaine, who has probably practiced singing along with that song five hundred billion times. He is completely shameless with regards to the fact that his singing style is swiped off of Morrisey to a certain extent. You've got to start somewhere, right? "Hey, do you think I could get into Trash next week?" he tries. "I've never seemed to be dressed right before."  
  
"You'll be fine," says Erol nonchalantly, and then "I'd love to see you there."  
  
\---  
  
So that day is much more productive. Blaine is feeling a bit of the sparkle he gets when he meets someone he's probably going to be very fond of very soon, and actually tries to brush shoulders with Erol as much as possible without being overly obvious. (This is about as far as he goes in terms of flirting. The delicate basics have always been beyond him.) Regardless of whether or not Erol is taking note of it, (and actually it might be better if he weren't, because getting involved with people twice your age is not always a brilliant idea although who knows, it worked out for Harrison Ford's girlfriend, didn't it?) it's obvious that the tension of previous days is starting to dissolve.   
  
It's not a bad day, pain-wise, either. Blaine is mostly able to be walking around (with the aid of crutches, of course) whenever necessary, and it just seems to put everyone in a better mood. Kai and Erol actually get in a bit of a row about bass effects but it gets cleared up and by the time they are ready to leave, all is well again. They're all feeling so good about themselves that they decide to go to their favorite pizza place for dinner. Everyone races up the stairs, leaving Erol and Henry to clean up the studio. Henry has to use the toilet and so Blaine waits in the stairwell.  
  
Since his leg's really not bad this evening, he decides to see if he can make it up on his own. He slings one crutch over his shoulder and leans on the other while trying to pull himself up using the handrail. It's not a horribly bad system, although it is extremely painful, and he gets up a couple of steps before he has to stop so that he can lean against the wall and wait for the cramps he's getting to fade.   
  
"Fucking stairs," he mutters. "Possibly invented by Satan, or Hitler. Should be burnt. Stairs, fuck stairs."  
  
"What's all this about?" Erol says, walking into the stairwell.  
  
"I'm waiting for my dad," Blaine explains. "Whoever built this building was a sadist who apparently liked the thought of people struggling up the fucking staircase." As he says this, he starts to slide down and has to catch himself with his free arm. Great, so now his arm, in addition to the rest of his body, hurts. "Shit. Son. Of. A. Bitch."  
  
"Oh, stop whining," Erol says. He walks up the stairs part way and then  _picks Blaine up and carries him to the top_.  
  
It makes Blaine absolutely ill. What are you supposed to say to someone who does that? He feels like spitting in Erol's face but he doesn't. Instead, he turns his back on Erol and storms out of the studio, swearing at the pain shooting up his legs as he makes his way down the street toward the pizza restaurant.  
  
\---  
  
He finds, though, that he doesn't have much of an appetite. He shoves his pizza around the plate with a fork.   
  
"What's the deal?" Henry says once he's caught up with the boys.   
  
"Nothing," Blaine says under his breath.   
  
"It's not nothing," Kai adds, helpfully. "He climbed the stairs out of the studio."  
  
"Ouch," says Kapil. "I think stairs were probably invented by Mussolini."  
  
"I said Hitler," Blaine says, brightening a bit. Having successfully climbed the stairs, resulting in extreme pain, would be a very good excuse for feeling trodden on the way he does. Maybe. "Or Satan."  
  
"If there's a Hell, it's all stairs," says Will, and for a while Blaine can eat his pizza and pretend that everything is still normal and fine and not about to fall apart.  
  
"Blaine," Henry says while they're scraping the last bits of melted cheese off their plates, "I'm truly proud of you."  
  
"I didn't climb the stairs," Blaine says through gritted teeth. "And I don't want to talk about it."  
  
\---  
  
Kap gives Blaine a ride home and, of course, brings up the whole stairs thing.  
  
"What's up, Blaine?" he says amiably. "Blaine, Master of Stairs?"  
  
"I didn't climb the stairs," he says quietly.   
  
"What's that? I was deafened by your blinding glory. Which doesn't make sense. Maybe I have what's it called."  
  
"Synesthesia."  
  
"Syn-the-seize-yer. Anyway. Speak up."  
  
"I DIDN'T CLIMB THE STAIRS," he says and then, "Not successfully, anyway."  
  
"How'd you get out the studio then?" Kap asks, scratching his head as he pulls up to a red light. Blaine breathes out a sigh of relief. It's still uncomfortable but he'd rather that than disappointment. Thank you, Kapil.  
  
"Don't want to talk about it." He waits a moment for Kap to say something but he doesn't, so Blaine talks to fill the silence. "That bastard picked me up."  
  
"Which bastard?"  
  
"Erol  _fucking_  Alkan, Erol 'I've never produced a damn thing in my life and I'm going to take advantage of your naivety' Alkan, you know the one." Blaine presses his forehead against Kap's window, feels the London night cold against his skin.  
  
"He picked you up?"  
  
"Yep. He told me to stop whining and just carried me up the stairs." It's making Blaine sick just to recount it. "I mean--what makes him think he has the right? I'm not a fucking child, you know that."  
  
"That is...confusing," says Kap. "I mean, who  _does_  that? How did he even--?"  
  
"Well it's not like I'm all that heavy," Blaine says with a shrug. "But it doesn't matter. It's my personal space. I mean, what does he think I am, Kap? Just a doll he can pick up and play with? I'm a human being."  
  
"I think you need to take it up with him," Kapil says. "There has to be a reason."  
  
"He just doesn't understand," Blaine insists, raising his voice a bit. "I mean, think about it. Ever since he was just a kid he's been playing in clubs, and now everyone and their cousin is practically kneeling down to lick his boots. How could he possibly? How could he ever have any idea what it's like to be different?" He sinks down in his seat, defeated, but when he starts to open his mouth again, Kapil interrupts him.  
  
"He knows, Blaine," he says softly.  
  
"How d'you mean?"  
  
"His parents are immigrants," says Kap. "I talked to him a little. I think the whole reason he does anything he does is for the same reason you do. He wanted to find a way to be accepted."  
  
"It doesn't excuse him turning around and treating me like shit," says Blaine, but he's still a little stunned by the revelation.   
  
The car pulls to a stop in front of Blaine's building. Kap gets out to give Blaine a hand and pats him on the arm before wishing him a good night. As if, Blaine thinks, but by the time he's up to his place, where his flatmate is already fast asleep, he's so exhausted that sleep is more or less all he can do.  
  
\---  
  
But as it turns out the next day is Monday, and promises are promises. Blaine would like to be violently ill, but instead he goes to the store and gets some things he needs and then paints in his room for a while. It's a quiet day but he worries that a storm is brewing tonight.   
  
At about 7 PM he cooks beans on the stove and has a completely meaningless conversation with his dad on the phone while simultaneously dumping beans into his bowl. Some of the beans end up on the floor and his flatmate Michael's cat tries to eat them.  
  
"No, no beans for you," he says, trying his best to kick her away with his better leg. "Yep, I'm some kind of cat-kicking maniac, me. But you can't have any beans. Michael!" he calls into the next room. "Toady's trying to eat my beans!" (The cat's full name is Princess Toadstool. Michael is a bit of a video game nerd.)  
  
"Let her eat them," Michael calls back. The Princess, apparently undaunted by the prospect of being kicked again, acts as a pink-tongued floor mop. Blaine smiles at her. She's nice to have around. "What are all the clothes in your room for?" Michael asks.  
  
"Going to Trash tonight," Blaine shouts. "Have to find something to wear!"  
  
"Can I join you?"  
  
"Sure!" Toady looks up pleadingly. "No,  _you_  can't. You've had your beans, now shut up."  
  
The two of them leave not long after, Michael kissing Toady on the face first as he often does. Blaine figures he can forgive this strangeness of Michael's. After all, he's always been a bit weird himself.  
  
\---  
  
At the club they don't even have to deal with Erol face-to-face because apparently they look just the right combination of cool and ridiculous to get them past Phil at the door. Blaine finds the other Mystery Jets (sans Henry, who told Blaine on the phone that he's really too old for this sort of thing), and they all dance and enjoy the band playing.   
  
Blaine almost wants to run away when Erol gets on the decks, but--Blaine has to admit it--he is  _really good_  at what he does. He isn't like some of the DJ's Blaine's seen who are constantly switching from song to song, scratching on records, and playing all sorts of electronic tricks. Instead, Erol seems to have this intuitive notion of what people are feeling at every moment. His transitions are almost less from one song to the next as from one emotion to the next, getting the crowd warmed up before he blasts their ears with loud, blaring dance tracks and then back to something quiet so that everyone can rest their aching legs and rave about how fantastic the previous choice was.   
  
Finally that Smiths song comes on and Blaine, sweat-soaked, sore, and still a little stressed, starts to stagger towards the door. But he never gets there. The crowd is thick, he feels choked, and above all else he doesn't want to look at Erol. The only problem is he needs desperately to sit down, so he shouts at Will to get him to a seat, and Will helps him walk over to the bar where he slumps into a chair. The bartender warns him that last call has come and passed. Blaine shakes his head. Drink won't help.  
  
Erol finishes and the floor clears immediately, as if the dancers melted into the walls when the music stopped. Will goes to use the toilet and Blaine stays in the chair. He already saw Erol walking toward him. He knows a confrontation is inevitable, and he'd rather Will miss this.  
  
"Hey, Blaine," Erol says softly. Blaine waits a few excruciating seconds before he turns around to look. Erol's face is calm and reverent, as if something about the music he was just playing had surprised even him with its power. "Are you all right?"  
  
"I don't even know why I'm here," says Blaine, although his heart isn't entirely in it. "But maybe you just don't realize. I'll try and give you the benefit of the doubt, but from now on I want to tell you that I don't like it when people lift me up. I'm not a child, Erol, and I don't want you parenting me."  
  
"Oh." Erol sits down, wipes his forehead. "That's why you were angry the other day. I just didn't want to leave you behind like your friends did."  
  
"I mean, it's just--"  
  
"I've always had a bit of trouble with that," Erol explains. "I'm always laying my hands on people when I shouldn't, and I apologize."  
  
"You still aren't understanding," Blaine says. "It's not about you touching me. It's because--"  
  
"I know. But I'm not going to let it get in the way or become an excuse for special treatment from me. I don't wait around."  
  
"And picking me up isn't special treatment?"  
  
"No. I didn't think of it that way. But I'm not going to do it again." It sounds like a promise. "Look," Erol continues. "I know from the very start you weren't all that fond of me. And I've probably gone about everything all wrong, which would be just my luck, but really I want you to know I just think you're brilliant." Blaine tries to think of something to say to this, but he doesn't even get the chance. "I mean, for me, working with you is like...like...I don't want to make any comparisons, because I think that...I think that it would be romanticizing the past too much. I just want you to know your band is one of the best things I've heard in the last ten years and that's why I wanted to work with you. It's not because I thought I could make you better. It's just because I thought maybe together we could make something really good."  
  
"That's a lot," says Blaine, wiping his own face. "A lot of things."  
  
"I know."  
  
"And I..." Blaine feels himself blush. "You were also really amazing tonight."  
  
"It's not about me, it's about everybody," says Erol.   
  
"Oh, for God's sake, it's a compliment!" Blaine says. "You don't have to go denying it."  
  
"All right, all right." Erol laughs. "Thank you."  
  
\---  
  
Erol keeps his word. From then on, no one picks Blaine up. He mostly gets Henry to help him up the stairs, but sometimes Will or one of the other boys gives him a hand. In the studio, frustration still flows and ebbs, but they are starting to get more used to the dynamics of having six people in the space, and, especially, to the idea of actually putting into words what they want the music to sound like. Once they're able to enunciate what's in their heads, they start to sound...really, really fantastic. Better than they did before. Blaine has to admit it.  
  
It's about two weeks total work to get a single produced, A and B sides, and when they are finally finished, everyone hugs everyone. Once again, they decide to go for pizza, and once again, Erol, Blaine, and Henry are the last ones out.   
  
Blaine waits at the bottom of the stairs and Erol walks up to him, his bag of cords and equipment slung over his back.   
  
"Here," says Blaine. "Let me show you something." He puts his arm through both crutches and rests one hand on the handrail, the other on Erol's shoulder. "Now, walk." They go up about three steps this way and then Blaine says, "So now you know, that's how it's done." Erol nods. "Now if you'd rather, I think I could actually go for being carried up right now," Blaine says with a grin, and Erol obliges.  
  
\---  
  
The next week Blaine is back in hospital, his notebook more or less glued to his side. This is his therapy. He writes down everything he thinks about in his messy hand, words crashing into other words and spilling out into the margins. He makes notes for himself between lines, scratches out the bits he doesn't like or misspells, and clamps the notebook shut whenever someone tries to read over his shoulder.  
  
Other times he just stares at the white walls of the room and wonders why he's alive.  
  
_It's good_ , he writes,  _to have a future_ , and looks at it until he's nearly convinced himself he does. But he still wonders if maybe he has to stop somewhere. If maybe you reach a certain point and then you can't do anything if you aren't normal.   
  
"What is normal?" Henry asks him when he confides this as Henry sits in the chair beside his bed.   
  
"Like everybody else."  
  
"What's everybody else like?"  
  
"They can walk, for starters. And they don't do this." He opens up to a random spread in his notebook, where his scrawls are nearly illegible. "They have proper hair cuts and can do regular jobs."  
  
"I don't want you to do a regular job," says Henry. "It would kill you. And I don't mean from pain," he says quickly when Blaine gives him A Look, "I mean from boredom. You have to do things where you can create. That's the sort of person you are. And listen--what really famous people can you think of?"  
  
"Er, John Lennon," Blaine says hesitantly, and then starts to get more into it, because listing things is distracting. "Stephen Fry. Rowan Atkinson. Hugh Grant. Oscar Wilde. Margaret Thatcher. The 'Numa Numa' bloke. Pete Doherty, though he's really famous for all the wrong reasons, isn't he?"  
  
"All right, now think about that list."  
  
"All right."  
  
"Is there a single  _normal_  person on there?" After a few moments of consideration, Blaine breaks into a wide grin.  
  
"Margaret Thatcher, I reckon."  
  
"Well, fair enough. But actually--no--because no woman had ever been PM before, so that was sort of a disability in its own way."  
  
"Besides, maybe Margaret Thatcher secretly collected glass eyeballs," Blaine adds.  
  
"Actually she was a reptile from outer space," Henry says, raising his eyebrows. "I heard as much from this man on a train. He seemed very reliable. He even had a sign done up and everything."  
  
\---  
  
Blaine nearly falls out of bed the next day when Erol walks into the room a little past lunch time.  
  
"Hello," he says, trying to keep calm. Erol is carrying a plate of something wrapped in Clingfilm and wearing a pleather jacket. He looks like he needs to catch up on his shaving. Blaine decides that the world's productivity must be directly related to whether or not Erol shaves, because his brain has just stopped.  
  
"Good afternoon," says Erol. "I just thought I'd let you know your single has charted."  
  
"What?" Commence acute brain failure. Before Erol speaks, Blaine barely remembers to add, "You mean  _our_  single."  
  
"It's really yours, I was just trying to help it be the best it could be. All the imagination was one hundred percent Mystery Jets."  
  
"Eighty percent."  
  
"Eighty-five," Erol concedes. "Anyway, I've brought sweets from my mum. I know it's a bit ridiculous, but she wouldn't let me leave the house without them once she heard I was paying a hospital visit. I'll see you later, all right?" He nods and is out before Blaine can thank him, leaving Blaine with a hand dangling in the air.   
  
Some sort of inner reflex in him made him want to touch Erol. It's really  _silly_ , he thinks. It's like Erol is his schoolboy crush. Blaine can't think a single sensible thing about him. He calms himself down and unwraps the plate. It's baklava. Damn it, and he just ate too.  
  
\---  
  
A little while later, once Blaine is back on his feet and playing clubs again, Erol introduces all of the Mystery Jets to their cousins Late of the Pier. At first he feels a pang of jealousy at the thought of Erol sharing the same sort of psychic connection with a different band they hardly even know, but he soon discovers that the music is really absolutely fantastic. Blaine gets his head nearly blown off by about fifty minutes of electric punk-rock meltdown, and emerges from it gleeful and sweat-soaked.  
  
Not to mention, he gets along quite well with the boys from Castle Donington. After a great deal of drunken talking (and hearing descriptions of the weirdest reveries ever-- "your music reminded me of antelopes a little bit, it's very graceful, it's like what are they called, it's like celestial spheres sliding around making noises" "I dreamt about those once, they were all bright colors and felt nice"), he finally brings up the subject that's been plaguing him all evening.  
  
"We love him," says Sam Potter going a bit misty-eyed. "He's brilliant."   
  
"Reads your mind, like," adds Andrew Faley. Blaine nods emphatically.  
  
"Beautiful man," Sam Potter continues, and Sam Eastgate gives him a look Blaine can't read. Blaine is kind of stunned. He sort of nods noncommittally, going along with this.  
  
"Reminds me a bit of a good coffee, or one of those symphonies with loads of cellos in," says Sam Eastgate, and the four of them are off on another tangent about who knows what. It's possible they have taken something, Blaine thinks. Or perhaps they're just extremely odd.  
  
When Blaine gets to the toilet to freshen up, splashing water over his sweaty face, he also makes a decision that had been stewing in the back of his head for quite a while. He gives himself a wicked grin in the mirror, adjusts his fringe for maximum roguish cool, and is out the door as fast as he can manage.   
  
Thankfully, Sam Potter is still around, and Blaine signals to him that he wants to talk. Potter holds up five fingers and nods at the rest of his band while he walks off with Blaine, a bit of a spring in his step, almost like he's skipping.   
  
"You ever kissed a boy?" Blaine says, trying not to show how much he is shaking. He's used this line before, at least, with generally good results.  
  
"Loads of times," says Potter dreamily, like he's not sure if maybe Blaine is just asking for advice as to how to go about it.  
  
"Bet you've never kissed a boy like me," says Blaine.  
  
"Not likely," says Potter, and leans in carefully, hands free, and pushes Blaine's mouth open with his own. He touches Blaine's chest hesitantly like he's not sure what he's supposed to be doing--evidently he really  _has_  never kissed a boy like Blaine--and after a long sweet couple of minutes pulls back.   
  
"Oooh, look at that," Blaine hears Sam Eastgate saying. Apparently Potter's five minutes are up, and his overly inquisitive friend couldn't stop wondering where he'd gone. Looks like someone's got someone else on a short leash.  
  
"He's got good taste, too, hasn't he?" Sam Potter says, beaming. He turns around and addresses Blaine. "Yeah, I saw the look on your face when I said Erol was beautiful. You two been having some fun then?" he asks.  
  
"All right." Blaine tries his best to look slightly cross. "First of all, I wasn't aware I had a look on my face. Second, pardon?"  
  
The two Sams look at each other and once again Blaine can't interpret what their eyes are saying. He speaks up again.  
  
"Are we talking about the same Erol Alkan? The once who's twice my age and has a girlfriend?"  
  
"Be careful," Sam Eastgate says in a mock whisper. "She's in this very club tonight."  
  
"Oh, come off it," Sam Potter says slightly apologetically. "This poor boy is so confused."  
  
"See, Erol's like..." Sam E. looks at the ceiling like he's trying to figure out how to word this. "Apparently his girlfriend's pretty open minded. She really encourages it."  
  
"What is 'it'?" Blaine nearly squeaks. His head is spinning. They are not saying what he thinks they're saying. They just can't be.   
  
They are.  
  
"Him being with boys. Especially little lanky ones," says Sam P. "Surprised he hasn't made any overtures. And I don't mean the William Tell sort."  
  
"William Tell wrote--? Oh. Erm." Blaine really wants to hide under a chair right now (it was his main defense mechanism as a small child). "No."  
  
"Well, he will, I'm sure," says Sam E. "He's a real sweetheart, Erol. Takes good care of you." Blaine looks at the floor.  
  
"Who else?" is all he can manage.   
  
"Oh, I dunno. At least two of the Klaxons. The little one from Justice. Loads of people from the early Trash days, I couldn't even tell you."  
  
"All right," says Blaine. He shifts to a fully standing position. "That's enough. You can stop talking about this. Just, stop."  
  
"I'm sorry," Sam E. says softly. Then he smiles. "Well, I'll see you around."  
  
"See you later," says Blaine, and he gives Sam P. a quick glance that he hopes is as unreadable as the ones he's been watching before he leaves.  
  
\---  
  
That night disappears into the swirling dark waters in the back of Blaine's mind as the band heads on one of the most exhausting tours of his life. They go to the United States and have the time of their lives. Blaine loves two things about being on tour. The first, of course, is the chance to enjoy the summer camp feeling of living with some of your best friends all the time. The second is getting a chance to do what he loves and make a connection with people all over the world. There's nothing more magical than the feeling of singing your songs along with a room full of sweating, dancing human beings who might just understand the emotions behind what you do. It's just the best thing in the world.  
  
Even when it's hell, and sometimes it is hell, Blaine can't help but smile.  
  
\---  
  
Sitting at the piano in the back of a crowded venue, Blaine is happy to be able to breathe again. As much of a social animal as he is, he needs these moments to himself, to clear his mind.   
  
There's a new song brewing in his head, and now it's fitting itself very nicely to a chord progression. He wasn't really aware how much emotion he'd been building up behind his eyes, and now it's all falling onto the keys of this poor abused upright. It takes a few moments of trial and error, but eventually he has something he likes, and a few words to carry it along, too.  
  
"If it's wrong, then dust me off and put me in my place/You could drop a bomb and blow me away without even a trace/I'll be gone and I won't give chase/Because when you're in pieces you pick up the bits/And nothing fits/And they fall through your fingers in flakes."  
  
It's not perfect, certainly. But after a lot of lying in the tour bus fiddling around with lines and choruses and instrumental breaks and which words go where, he and Will turn it into a serviceable product. In the same way he often does, Blaine works with the lyrics and blends fiction with fact until it's more or less divorced from the raw real-life emotions from which it was originally forged.  
  
Henry overhears him singing it in a motel shower and the next thing you know, they're playing it live to an unsuspecting audience and planning to put it on the next album.  
  
\---  
  
Back in England Erol is beyond excited to work with them on 'Flakes' and the other tracks that everyone is pretty sure will become their next LP. The entire group has become much closer, and Blaine often finds that what Faley said was true--there does start to be a bit of ESP among them. At one point, Erol starts to say "Kapil, could you try and--do that," he finishes, because Kap has already started to play exactly what Erol imagined.   
  
Blaine and Will sometimes just gush at each other over how amazing the whole process is. Regardless of the successes they've had in the past, being in the Mystery Jets has never felt this  _real_  before. They're making the kind of music they always wanted to make, unconstrained by their former inability to understand the fine details of how to use studio equipment. Not to mention, a year's worth of experiences has taught them plenty about making music. Somehow, even though they have no one instructing them on what to do, they've still managed to become much better musicians.   
  
The process of putting into words exactly what they want to hear has helped Blaine to be better at putting his thoughts and feelings into words, too. He realizes his notebook has become even more navel-gazing than it was before, and he likes that, because it helps him make sense of his world.  
  
He figures out, for instance, what it is about Erol that he likes so much (other than his good looks).  
  
Whenever Erol is unhappy with the band's arrangement, he has just started moving people around the same way he does instruments and recording equipment. With most of them, he'll just say where he wants them to go, but at one point he lifted up Kai because he was wedged between a mixer and Kap's drum set. After that success, he has taken to just picking up Blaine and moving him wherever he wants, with a firm grip around Blaine's waist and a gentle hand as he sets him down. It's absolutely a joke, of course, and everyone including Erol and Blaine can't hold in their laughter whenever Erol does this. But it does mean something to Blaine.  
  
In the club with Sam--Blaine can't keep it straight, was it Sam E. or Sam P. he kissed?--he wasn't really surprised when whichever Sam he pulled into a corner was reluctant to touch him. People are afraid of breaking him once they see that he is disabled (or injured; people seem to equate crutches with accidents). Erol isn't. That's what he meant when he was talking about not giving Blaine special treatment.   
  
\---  
  
Since childhood, Blaine has practiced the art of being as quiet as humanly possible so that he can overhear other people's conversations. Henry, bless him, is completely oblivious to this, because Blaine generally makes a lot of noise even doing normal things such as, you know, walking. (Contrary to what you might think, this is mainly because he often sings and hums to himself whilst walking.) Right now Blaine is hiding in the hallway of the studio listening to his father and Erol have a conversation he knows he wasn't supposed to hear.  
  
"I know he looks up to you a lot," Henry is saying, "and I think he feels safe with you. So take care of him, all right?"   
  
The context of this remark is that Henry has decided, for various reasons, that he will not follow the band on their next tour, a small loop around Great Britain. Blaine tightens his grip on the handles of his crutches until he starts worrying someone will have to pry his hands off. I'm not a child, Dad, he thinks darkly. I don't even live with you anymore for fuck's sake.  
  
"I think he does a good job taking care of himself," says Erol, and Blaine's fingers loosen.  
  
"I know, I know," says Henry. "But you know, he's my son, and I worry whenever he goes to unfamiliar places." Shut up, Dad. Please.  
  
"Yeah, I'll see what I can do," says Erol, a smile in his voice. Blaine hears his footsteps approach the door and Blaine pretends he's just coming out of the toilet, making a great deal of noise with his crutches on the concrete floor. Henry pats him on the arm and Erol, as usual, carries him up the stairs.  
  
\---  
  
Surprisingly, it's not as different as Blaine thought it would be, touring without his dad there. Honestly, having Erol there is really the only difference.   
  
And that is both blessing and curse. Blaine loves the chance to spend time with Erol. The first night of the tour, the two of them stay up late and Erol plays him his favorite records. It's funny, because if you give him room, Erol will go off on any topic for ten minutes without letting you get a word in. But he says more with the times he chooses to be silent.  
  
On the other hand, the fact that Erol is right there means that Blaine's uncomfortable feelings are staring him right in the face. Every single time he thinks of Erol, he also wonders what designs Erol does have on him. And he can't decide if he likes that thought. It's like pulling petals off a daisy--I like it, I like it not. It gets Blaine's neurons in a tangle.   
  
Two nights later, he's sitting by Erol on a couch again and he feels like any moment he could say something crazy. Every time he opens his mouth he feels the whole world lurch, and he shuts it again. Every time Erol yawns and stretches he thinks about the distance between his shoulders and Erol's, and how easy it would be to close the gap if Erol put his arm around him.   
  
But he doesn't.  
  
Except the next day, they're talking backstage while Blaine is trying to find a piano he can use to warm up. Blaine isn't hearing a word Erol says, deafened by the noise inside his own head. He imagines himself saying,  _we have to stop doing this_ , or,  _we need to talk_ , or,  _I've been utterly confused lately and I want to know what's going on_ , or,  _listen, those boys from Late of the Pier told me something that I think we need to address before I go completely mad_ , except maybe he's already completely mad because what he says is this:  
  
"I love you."  
  
Erol nearly chokes, and steps back like he's just been shot.  
  
"I'm sorry," says Blaine.   
  
He ducks out of the room and finds the room with the piano. It's behind a lot of chairs and tables. He crawls under the table. He feels like he's going to cry. There is a tunnel of tables and chairs in front of him. He scoots himself through the tunnel using his hands. His legs and back and feet are killing him. Now he is crying. He is under the piano. He presses his back against the exposed insides of the upright. It's like a naked person spooning him in bed. That's a funny thought. This is very intimate. He is still crying. He feels like an idiot. He ducks his head until the little hairs on the top of his neck are brushing against the wood of the piano and it is painful but it feels comfortable because it makes him nostalgic. He is going to stay there for a while.  
  
\---  
  
At one point the door opens and someone calls for him but he pretends he isn't there.  
  
\---  
  
"Where the hell is he?" Blaine hears Will's voice, just when he feels like he's almost slowed his heartbeat to a stop. "We need to sound check. This isn't funny."  
  
"I honestly don't know where he's gone. I've looked everywhere," Erol says.  
  
"Listen." Will's specific words fade out of Blaine's hearing, but he can tell that his tone is worried and clipped. And the truth is, Blaine can't let Will worry about him.  
  
"I'M IN HERE," he says.  
  
"Oh my god, that's him," Will says. "Where's that coming from?"  
  
"I'M IN THE ROOM WITH ALL THE FURNITURE," he says.  
  
"I'm going in," says Erol. "I need to talk to him anyway."  
  
Blaine hears the door open.   
  
"Where are you, Blaine?" Erol calls.  
  
"UNDER THE PIANO."  
  
"Can you get out?"  
  
Blaine tries to pull himself back through the tunnel. He can't even get himself out from under the piano.  
  
"NO, I'M STUCK."  
  
"Hold on." Blaine has no idea what Erol is going to do about this. He actually starts to panic a little bit once he realizes that he is stuck under the piano.   
  
And then he realizes that Erol is lifting up the chairs and tables. He is rearranging the entire room and demolishing the tunnel until he finds Blaine, a mess of tears and snot, under the piano. Gently, he pulls Blaine's aching body out and, staggering backwards, sits in a chair and holds Blaine in his lap.  
  
"You don't have to apologize," Erol says, his hand finding the back of Blaine's head. Blaine can't think of anything to say and he just stares at Erol's face, closer than it's ever been. Their bodies are touching at hundreds of individual little points. He's a little overwhelmed, to say the least. "You're very special to me," Erol continues. "That sounds shit. I mean it, though."  
  
"My dad told you to take care of me," Blaine says. "We shouldn't be doing this." And yet he really wants to kiss Erol. Maybe he should do something about it. "Not to mention," he says, "I'm not really special to you. Not unless every other boy in London is special to you."  
  
"Maybe my heart is too big," Erol says. His fingers move deep into Blaine's hair.   
  
He's not really sure who starts it, but suddenly they're kissing, and Blaine doesn't want it to stop.  
  
\---  
  
They arrive a little late to sound check, claiming food poisoning, and the show goes on. Blaine starts off shaky and uncertain, and then by the end of the night he's grinning like a maniac. He knows what happens next.   
  
\---  
  
And it does happen just as he suspects. The moment they're back to their hotel room, he and Erol can't keep their hands off one another. Blaine doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about it. Erol pulls Blaine's clothes off and doesn't even give Blaine's twisted legs and misshapen feet a second glance, he just kisses his way up to Blaine's stomach and then nuzzles up his chest to lay his head atop Blaine's heartbeat.   
  
Blaine unzips Erol's tight jeans and sticks both hands down the front, working until he has Erol hard and panting. Erol himself is kissing Blaine's face and ears and neck, and Blaine's erection is pushing hard into Erol's thigh. But Blaine puts himself on hold and moves down to the end of the bed, his legs dangling over the back, so he can get his mouth over Erol's cock. He takes Erol deep into his mouth and Erol is already squirming and making contented noises. When Blaine pauses to wet his fingers and then start to push two of them into Erol, Erol says "Oh, god," out loud. Blaine doesn't get his fingers far into Erol but instead teases him, sliding just the tips in and out. It works. Erol loves this and soon he's coming in Blaine's mouth.  
  
Blaine swallows and licks his lips and lets Erol take him to heaven.  
  
\---  
  
It is the first and last time they ever sleep together.   
  
The rest of the tour is a little bit awkward, and Erol tries to kiss Blaine at one point, but he shoves Erol away. He's been doing some thinking.  
  
\---  
  
"I want to talk to you," Erol says, when it's just the two of them on the bus. The other boys still haven't gotten back from lunch and Blaine is lying on his bottom bunk doing his best to doodle, listen to headphones, and ignore Erol. But honestly he does owe Erol this.  
  
"I know." Blaine slips off his headphones. "I made some mistakes." Erol sits down on the seat.   
  
"I made worse ones," he says, looking at Blaine and giving him a cynical half-smile.  
  
"You probably did," Blaine replies. He goes on. "But not stopping you was a bit of my fault, wasn't it?"  
  
"Honestly I'm not sure I understand what's going on," says Erol.  
  
"Well, you're married." Before Erol can explain his situation, Blaine continues. "I know how your wife feels about the whole thing, for some reason I can't even remember one of those Sams told me."  
  
"Sams?""Sam Eastgate. Sam Potter. The Sams. But see, that's not the thing."  
  
"What is the thing, then?" Blaine can see discomfort on Erol's face.  
  
"The thing is I don't really  _do_  what you do. Sometimes I get drunk and kiss people I shouldn't, but my relationships are--I mean, I have  _relationships_ , I don't just have friends who I sleep with. So if you want something to happen between us, you'll have to be ready for that sort of thing," he explains.  
  
"I..." Erol sighs. "Blaine, I really, really like you. I do. But I love my wife. And the way I feel about you..." He pauses. "You're  _important_  to me, sure, but it's not like..."  
  
"You're lying," Blaine says.   
  
"Excuse me? I hardly think I'd--"  
  
"But it doesn't matter because you're much older than I am," Blaine interrupts. "And you're my band's producer. We can't do this. We have to choose." Maybe no one's ever made you choose before, Blaine thinks, but I will. "And it's easier to keep up the lives you already lead than throw everything away on the off chance that something improbable will work."  
  
Erol buries his head in his hands.  
  
"I blew it," he says. "I loved working with you so much."  
  
"You're still going to work with us, Erol," says Blaine. "Because we're all close, and I'm not letting this stupid thing change everything. We're both grown-ups, aren't we?"  
  
"I don't know if I can," Erol says.   
  
"You can, and you're going to," says Blaine. "You're going to keep working with the Mystery Jets, and we're going to make brilliant music, and my dad is never going to hear about what happened on this tour. But you are not fucking leaving us."  
  
"We're really fucked up," says Erol. "Aren't we."  
  
"Absolutely," says Blaine.   
  
Erol lowers his voice.  
  
"I bet you knew I was going to say this," he says, "but I  _was_  lying, after all."  
  
\---  
  
They all go back into the studio, and for a while things stay strange. It seems like everyone suspects something happened between Blaine and Erol, and it's so frustrating to Blaine that he sometimes goes home and screams into a pillow, comforted by the warm body of Princess Toadstool, the cat who always understands.   
  
At an art show in London, Blaine meets a girl with a radiant smile and soft hands. The first thing she asks him is "What happened?" and it almost seems like it's going to go the same way these conversations always do. But it turns out she has an uncle who's been in a wheelchair since she was a little girl, and she understands everything without needing any explanations. And she touches him not because he needs it, but because it's obvious.  
  
\---  
  
It's Sunday, and Blaine is on his way out of the studio. Erol helps him up the stairs, Blaine's hand on his arm.   
  
"Erol," he says, "Can you put me on the guest list for Trash tomorrow?"  
  
"You're already on the guest list," Erol says.  
  
"Can I have a plus one?"  
  
"Of course you can have a plus one."  
  
"Erol," he says again. "Do you think you and I will ever be able to have a proper conversation without making idiots of ourselves?"  
  
"I think making idiots of one's self is sort of the human condition," Erol says with a shrug.  
  
"But do you think we could try?"  
  
"Yes," says Erol. "I think we could try."  
  
"And, oh, do you think you could do me a favor?" Blaine asks hesitantly.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Can you carry me up the stairs?"

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome any concrit about my portrayal of Blaine's disability (spina bifida) and I apologize if it is in any way a terrible portrayal. Mainly my Blaine is a bit of a woobie and I promise it's not because of his crutches. I just like him better that way. XD
> 
> Chandra gets referred to as Erol's "girlfriend" earlier in the story and then as his "wife"; that's because they got married during the course of the story.
> 
> Michael and Princess Toadstool are OCs. Other things which are entirely false: the backstory of "Flakes" and the original lyrics Blaine writes. I do think the lyrics are a little different from usual 'Jets fare though and I wonder if the authorship isn't Henry's.


End file.
